


Leap Of Faith

by everybodylies



Category: Inception (2010), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Crossover, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-26
Updated: 2012-06-30
Packaged: 2017-11-06 01:00:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 5,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/412973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/everybodylies/pseuds/everybodylies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Reichenbach Fall Redux: Inception style. After a mysterious turn of events, Sherlock begins to doubt his reality.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> So this story is mainly Sherlock, which means that if you've only watched Inception and not Sherlock, you should turn back now, unless you enjoy being confused. However, if you've watched Sherlock, but not Inception, you should be fine. Also, if you haven't watched Inception, the sections in italics (there isn't one in this chapter, but there will be in the rest), will probably be meaningless, but they are not essential to the story, so no worries!  
> Constructive criticism or just blindly praising me are both welcome! (Joke)

Mycroft digs quickly, yet carefully, through the dusty boxes in his closet. _Where is it?_ he asks his usually precise brain. _Where did I put it?_ He tries to tell himself to calm down, that what he truly needs is a clear head, and that he's overreacting, but he really doesn't have the necessary experience with the situation to say that.

It's not like him to lose things, but of course, it's not like his brother to go off and make stupid mistakes… and this thought makes him stop his search for a moment. _What if it hadn't been an accident? What if it had been on purpose?_

The Holmes boys have always been skilled in prioritizing, and Mycroft shelves the lecherous thoughts until they can be more properly dealt with.

He finds the number in a box that dates back to his university days, the paper yellowed with age. As he dials, he thinks back to freshman year, when the only choices he'd had for his last course were architecture and botany. And what a choice that had turned out to be.

Though the number must be at least twenty years old by now, a familiar voice answers.

"Hello? Who is this?" The tone is wary, cautious.

"Dom? It's Mycroft." He sighs. "I need your help."


	2. Chapter 1

_They come here everyday to sleep?_

_No. They come here to be woken up. The dream has become their reality. Who are you to say otherwise?_

…

Sherlock wakes, but keeps his eyes closed. He likes to play a kind of game with himself in the mornings, to see how much information he can gather without using what is typically considered to be the most important out of the five senses. He takes a breath, tastes the air, feels the warmth of the sun on his skin.

_It is 7:05 am, Saturday, March 25th. 15 degrees Centigrade, and partly cloudy with 34% humidity. John washed your sheets yesterday, not Mrs. Hudson. The light bulb above you needs changing. Mr. Speedy's has had five customers so far, two of which were frequent smokers._

His body stiffens, as a familiar scent hits his nose. Something is wrong, horribly, horribly wrong.

_John is making omelets. With egg whites._

Sherlock jerks out of bed, puts on a robe, and leaves his bedroom indignantly, head held high.

"John! How many times must I tell you that I have no wish to accompany you on this health kick of yours--" He pauses when John hands him a plate of yellow eggs.

"Don't worry, I remembered." Sherlock blinks and snatches the plate, grabbing the salt and shaking an excess of the condiment onto his food. As a result, the eggs don't taste too good, but it's worth it to see John's amusing wince.

They finish breakfast and Sherlock goes to check on his mold cultures while John takes a shower. It's a peaceful morning until, of course, it isn't. His phone beeps, and John brings it over.

"Sherlock."

"Not now, I'm busy," he replies flatly. It's probably Mycroft with more government nonsense and this fungus is growing in quite an interesting structure--

" _Sherlock_ ," John repeats, and this time his tone makes Sherlock pause. "He's back." He reads the text. It's Moriarty. His heart speeds up. First comes the fear, of course, bringing with it, the horrifying mental image of John wrapped in explosives, but then he can't help but get excited because things had been getting so boring lately. What convenient timing. He tries to refrain from showing his eagerness on his face, because he knows John will be upset. John's disappointed shake of his head tells Sherlock that he's failed, but John doesn't bring it up, and it's no matter.

He hands his phone back to John and that should be the end of it. They should get dressed, hail a cab, and head off to the station. But that's not how it happens, not yet. John gets a confused look on his face, squints at the phone.

"You've got another text. From a restricted number."

Sherlock snatches the phone back.

_PASIV_

"These letters mean anything to you?" he asks John. They are familiar to Sherlock, but only vaguely, like something from a half-forgotten dream. Perhaps a bit of information he'd deleted from his brain?

"Er… yes, actually. It's some kind of dream-sharing technology. When I was an intern, I saw some of the neurologists use it to determine the mental status of their coma patients." John wrinkles his eyebrows. "What does the text mean? You thinking it's Moriarty also?"

"Highly unlikely. Moriarty just sent me a signed text. There would be no point to another unsigned one."

"Probably a wrong number, then. You should just ignore it."

"Then why would it be a restricted number? There must be another explanation."

John sighs."Well, I don't know if you've noticed, Sherlock, but we've got bigger problems right now."

Sherlock rubs his forehead. He never half-remembers information. He either knows it completely or not at all because he's deleted it. There's something off here. He stands up and heads for his bedroom. "Get dressed, John. We're leaving in ten minutes."

Five letters. That's all it is. Still, it's enough to twist his stomach into a knot. His entire life, he'd forced himself to ignore all those irrational gut feelings that most regular people fall prey to, instead relying on cold, hard facts to tell him the truth. But he can't ignore the anxiety that's taking root in his intestines, stopping his heart, telling him that _this isn't the way it goes_.

He does his best to push the text to the back of his mind. Moriarty is the more pressing issue, anyhow.

…

_Mycroft frowns at this so-called "team" assembled in his office. The two Americans, one man, one woman, chat on the couch while the British man seems to be in the process of picking up every trinket in the room and shaking it at least once. The Americans look professional, but far too young to be reliable. The other man appears to be a jokester and cannot be taken seriously._

_He's slightly startled when he feels a warm hand on his shoulder and turns to find Dom patting his back reassuringly._

_"Don't worry, Mycroft," Dom says. "I know how they look, but they're the best at what they do." Mycroft must still look concerned because Dom continues. "Do you remember that big news story that broke a couple months ago? Robert Fischer, owner of the largest energy corporation in the world suddenly dissolves his empire?" Mycroft usually tries to refrain from showing any emotion at all on his face, though in this moment, he makes an exception. His emotion of choice is shock._

_"That was you?"_

_Dom smirks. "No, of course not. All the interviews said--"_

_"--that he'd had a dream. Of course," Mycroft interrupts, eyes wide._

_Dom nods. He gestures over to the sitting area. "Let's discuss the situation, shall we?"_

_As Mycroft approaches the team, the professional looking American takes out a pad of paper and a pen. "Tell us about your brother," Dom starts._

_Mycroft sits down, covers his face with his hands. Was this really happening? Had his brother actually done this?_

_"Well, first of all, he's a genius," Mycroft begins, ignoring the impulse to roll his eyes. "He'd have an IQ over 200 if he wasn't too arrogant to take the test. He likes to use that intellect to solve cases for the police, God knows why."_

_"Who are the people he's close to? Friends? Other family members?"_

_Mycroft sighs. "… He doesn't really have friends, per se. Honestly, it's all a bit complicated…"_


	3. Chapter 2

_Never recreate from your memory. Always imagine new places!_

…

The morning of the trial he gets bored during the obnoxiously long thirty minutes John spends finding the two of them court-appropriate outfits.

"It's been scientifically proven that juries like you better if you wear blue," John shouts from the closet.

"Give it a rest, John. As it happens, it's also been scientifically proven that when the alarms go off at the Jewel House and the police break in to find Jim Moriarty wearing them that he is most definitely guilty."

John sighs. "Sherlock, I just want to do everything that we can to make sure that this maniac is locked up forever. God knows your personality isn't going to help us much with that."

Bored, Sherlock makes the arduous journey over to where his phone lies on the kitchen table, and looks through it, for maybe one of those games that everyone has these days that he can use to pass the time. He stumbles across that text he'd received several weeks ago. Even now, reading the simple five letters still gives him a bad feeling. For a reason he can't place, he looks back suspiciously at John who remains occupied with their mess of a closet.

He doesn't find much on the internet that John hasn't told him already. Used occasionally in hospitals, or military training camps, PASIV was a device used for shared dreaming, or individual lucid dreaming. He comes across some familiar conspiracy theory sites (he often had to visit them to find information on odd cases) with questionable posts like "H0W D0 1 TeLL 1F 1 AM ALrEADY DREaMING?!?!"

John startles him by poking his head over Sherlock's shoulder and squinting at the computer screen.

"Sherlock! You have to focus. This is a very important trial. Stop wasting time on this foolishness." Sherlock looks at John and mentally categorizes their actions of the past few days. John had been acting strangely. Stress due to the trial, perhaps? He turns his mind to the present, looks closer at John's posture, the markings on his face, the stains on his clothing.

 _John woke up around two a.m. last night because of a nightmare about Afghanistan, and couldn't fall asleep again until four. His coffee this morning was only half as strong because he's been running out of beans for a while now, but with the whole Moriarty situation going on, he hasn't had the time to run to the supermarket. He fell asleep before brushing his teeth last night and brushed for extra long this morning._ Yes, it was probably the stress.

"John, you know I am perfectly capable of multitasking--" John pushes the laptop shut, and hands Sherlock a meticulously chosen tie. Sherlock takes it hesitantly.

"Alright, let's go over your testimony," John begins, settling into one of the chairs. Shrugging, Sherlock turns away from the computer, but he decides not to delete the recently learned information, just in case.

…

_"So, what are you planning?" Mycroft asks once the questioning ends, and Dom dismisses his team. Dom's easy confidence from earlier visibly begins to fade, though he still tries to smile comfortingly._

_"I have to warn you, Mycroft, this is dangerous. I've had a bit of experience with this kind of thing, and if we're not careful, there could be repercussions after he wakes up." Dom's voice is sad, regretful, and Mycroft frowns._

_"What kind of repercussions?" A memory comes to him, out of nowhere._

_It's a file, hand-delivered to him from his "friends" at the CIA. Inside, there is a picture of a fugitive, wanted for the murder of his wife. Dominic Cobb. Of course, he'd wanted to help (the degree to which Mal had prepared for her husband's act seemed rather suspicious), but the case was too open and shut to argue with, and besides, Britain had been having a particularly difficult issue he needed to deal with at the time._

_"He'll still think he's dreaming," Mycroft answers his own question, and sighs. "I'm sorry about Mal. She was a wonderful woman."_

_Dom laughs sadly. "I won't ask how you figured that out. You know, I really shouldn't be surprised anymore."_


	4. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> edited 6/26/12

_Dreams feel real when we're in them. It's only when we wake up that we realize something was actually strange._

…

He walks briskly away from John towards St. Bart's to find Molly. Moriarty's plan starts to crystallize in his head. Moriarty had been destroying his reputation so he could-- he stops abruptly when he reaches the main road. A man had caught his attention.

The man sports dirty blonde slicked back hair and a well-pressed suit. Average sized, he looks pleasant enough, and yet the crowds give him a large berth as they walk by. Sherlock feels his eyes being drawn to the man, for no discernible reason. He tries to focus his brain, look closer, make deductions, but, oddly, not much comes to him. At least, nothing with his usual depth.

_Early thirties, American, neat, precise. Widower._

The man turns his head, and when their eyes meet, a chill runs down Sherlock's spine.

As Sherlock crosses the street and approaches the man, he gets an odd sort of feeling, like he's sleepwalking. His mind falls into a haze, and the words that come out of his mouth are not his.

"I'm here to tell you something," the man says, and Sherlock nods, like it makes perfect sense.

"To remind me," Sherlock mutters. The two of them are like boulders in the stream of pedestrians, but no one yells at them to get out of the way.

"Yes," the man says, taking a step closer to Sherlock. "To remind you of a truth you had once known, but chose to forget." There's a pause, and Sherlock feels like the Earth has stopped turning, just for a moment. "That this world is not real."

The blast of a horn from a nearby car snaps Sherlock out of his daze. He quickly grounds himself.

"Who are you?" he demands.

"My name is Mr. Charles," the man answers in a tone that assures Sherlock that it isn't. "But that's not important right now."

"Then what is?"

"You got my text didn't you?"

Sherlock hesitates. So much had happened since he'd last thought of it; Moriarty's acquittal and subsequent crusade to convince Britain that Sherlock Holmes was a fake had taken up most of his attention.

"I see," he says after a second. "So, you're trying to convince me that I'm dreaming."

"'Convince' isn't really the right word here."

"Well, you can go back to Moriarty and tell him that, while his plan is quite clever, it is far too specious to work out in reality."

The man's persistent smile is unnerving.

"This isn't reality. And I don't work for Moriarty."

"Then, you can go back and tell _whomever_ \--"

"Don't disappoint me, Mr. Holmes. I've heard so much about you." The man steps closer to him. "Think, Mr. Holmes. Use your brain. The people you know aren't acting as they should. You know too much, things that you shouldn't be able to know. You're being chased around the city by people, for unknown reasons--" he thinks of the assassins "--and you get to places without realizing how you got there, like some kind of movie." When the man stops, they are now only inches apart. Sherlock realizes that the man is waiting for a response.

"Don't be ridiculous," Sherlock snaps. He takes a breath, feels the texture of his clothes on his skin, looks around at the sharp colors and sharp edges and absolute _realness_ of everything. "This is real. I'm awake."

The man gives him a piercing stare. "Take a leap of faith, Mr. Holmes," he suggests before he turns around and disappears into the crowd. "You never know where it might take you."

"Faith has no place with me!" he shouts after the man, but all he gets in response are the confused glances from the people passing by.

…

_"Ok, I'm on the roof," Eames announces, voice crackly on the radio waves. Dom hands Mycroft the walkie-talkie._

_"Alright, be careful. Moriarty is a very dangerous, trained individual who will not hesitate to kill you."_

_Eames sighs in an exaggerated manner. "Relax, sweetheart. I'm the professional and you're the tourist." Dom smirks and shakes his head in amusement. "He's just a projection. How bad can he be?" Mycroft makes a face. Sweetheart? Honestly, who was this man?_

_"Fairly bad, I'd say. He was one of Britain's most wanted."_

_Mycroft can imagine Eames rolling his eyes. "Some of my closest friends are on Britain's most--Shhh! He's here!"_

_Mycroft places the walkie-talkie back into the center and closes his eyes. They all hold their breaths as they hear a door swing shut, a brief struggle, the jarring sound of a silenced gunshot, and then, silence. Mycroft sighs in relief when it is Eames' voice again, on the radio._

_"Well, he was a tricky little bugger, but I got him." Mycroft resists the juvenile urge to say, "I told you so." It's something his brother would have done, he thinks somberly._

_"Did you plant the message?" the girl, Ariadne, he'd learned, asks. Eames murmurs, surprised._

_"Deary me, I almost forgot. Thanks love, what would I do without you?"_

_Arthur, whose objective professionalism Mycroft had started taking a liking to, bristles slightly. Mycroft senses a deeper story, but there are much more important things on his mind._

_Once Eames confirms that the job is done, Dom stands up and turns to Mycroft. "Your brother should be able to do the rest by himself." Then, to everyone, "Now, let's get out of here before the dream starts to collapse."_


	5. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> edited 6/25/12

_An idea is like a virus, resilient, highly contagious. The smallest seed of an idea can grow. It can grow to define or destroy you._

…

John answers his phone, and his face twists into worry as one of Sherlock's homeless network buddies delivers him the "bad news." Sherlock already knows what it is, of course.

"Oh my God. Mrs. Hudson's been shot." John grabs his coat and heads for the door, and pauses when he notices Sherlock staying put. "Aren't you coming?"

Sherlock shakes his head, tries to make the action look as cold as possible.

"No, I'm busy. I need to think."

John sighs, pauses. Sherlock feels his phone vibrate in his pocket. Moriarty, most likely.

"If that's what you think is right… then fine. Stay hidden." John leaves without much of a fuss. Sherlock stares at the door for a moment after John's departure, then starts up the stairs.

He arrives on the roof, only to find that someone has already been there. The body of Moriarty lies twenty feet away, in a puddle of his own blood.

_The bullet hole is right between the eyes, and the angle makes it extremely unlikely that it was a suicide. Powder burns on the skin indicate that the shot was extremely close range. Rumpled state of the clothing and the body suggest there was a struggle. Murder._

Sherlock's mind flashes back to several months ago.

Behind the serial killer cabbie, the chinese mafia, the forgery of the Vermeer, and pretty much every other crime committed in London, there had been Moriarty, an invisible spider spinning an invisible web. Moriarty seemed to be the top of the top, the final villain, the real deal. He'd seen the guy at work: elegant, precise, and deadly. And now, apparently there's someone even worse. Is that even possible? His brain considers the likely possibilities, pushes the most likely option away, in denial.

He's not dreaming. He's not.

He walks closer to the dead body. A slip of paper protrudes from Moriarty's breast pocket. Sherlock retrieves it and reads:

_Take a leap of faith._

He breathes slowly.

Placing his fingers on his temples, he paces around and forces himself to think. To really think and only think. He's been letting his emotions get the best of him lately.

_What do you know? Moriarty is dead. Somebody killed him. Somebody killed the most powerful criminal mastermind in Europe and escaped with his or her life intact._

_What do you know? A man showed up and told you things about your life that he couldn't have known. Parlor tricks? Or the truth?_

_What do you know? Someone sent you a text. PASIV. John told you to ignore it… John._

_What do you know?_

He looks around at his surroundings, head swimming. Had everything always looked so garishly colored?

The pieces fall into place. Everything fits so neatly, he's actually quite ashamed it took him so long to work it out. And that's another clue isn't it? The denial? It all makes sense now.

But he's not done, not entirely certain. Just one more experiment. Just a few more pieces of data.

He looks at his watch. John's due back in fifteen minutes or so. He finds a nice-enough seat on the ledge and settles down to wait.

…

_Mycroft examines Sherlock's face, searching for any sign of movement. "Now what?" he asks._

_Dom sighs, pulls up a chair._

_"We wait."_


	6. Chapter 5

_I'll come back, and we'll be young men together again._

…

He watches as the taxi pulls up, and John steps out. On his phone is a draft of a text to Molly, for his original plan of faking his suicide. He feels a bit of disappointment when he deletes the message; it had been such a brilliant plan. But it's all useless now.

He calls John, who picks up fairly quickly.

"Hello?"

"John."

"Hey Sherlock, you okay?"

"Turn around and walk back the way you came now."

"No, I'm coming in."

"Just do as I ask, please." The plan no longer calls for John to stand in that special perspective-obscuring section of the parking lot, but something about the whole situation is ominous and Sherlock has no desire to do this face-to-face. He's not sure why, perhaps worried that he'll be sucked back into the illusion.

"Where?"

He watches the small image of John move farther back.

"Stop there."

"Sherlock?"

"Ok, look up, I'm on the rooftop."

John exhales. "God, I'm afraid to ask why."

Sherlock looks back at the dead body of Moriarty, that dreadful feeling of doubt creeping into his features. There is, of course, another explanation for everything.

_Moriarty staged his murder, hired the assassins for no reason other than to chase you, the code was fake. The rest is explained by nerves, high stress, and coincidence. This is all just an extremely elaborate plan to get you to kill yourself under the pretense of trying to wake up from a dream._

"Moriarty's dead," Sherlock says. John hesitates, then, gently:

"… Did you kill him?"

After a moment, Sherlock makes a decision and answers.

"Yes," he lies.

John sighs, and Sherlock can almost imagine him making that judgmental face that he hates. Almost.

"Was it absolutely necessary?"

"Not really."

Another sigh.

"… Not exactly the way I would have handled the situation, but considering the fact that it's Moriarty, I guess it's alright--"

And somehow he feels relief and heartbreak all at the same time because _this isn't John._ This isn't the John he met all those months ago, with the strong moral code, who only fired at the very last moment. This isn't the John who calls him out on it whenever his lack of caring, of sentiment, is too reprehensible.

"John, I think I'm dreaming." He touches his face to find, with surprise, that he is crying. Fake tears had been in the original script for realism, but these have come to him, unprompted, and he doesn't exactly know the reason. He looks at John and he feels some dull ache in his heart, like a wound from long ago that hasn't fully healed. His mind is clouding, and he can almost remember something, but it's all muddled.

"What, right now?"

"Yes, I believe that I am under the influence of a PASIV machine, and that I need to kill myself to wake up."

"Jesus, Sherlock, this is crazy, even for you." John's voice is panicked, though he tries unsuccessfully to hide it. "Here, what makes you think that?"

"My deductions have become increasingly detailed and impossibly specific. I know things that I could not possibly know unless I was the one creating the world. I know what you dream about, John. I know when the light bulbs need changing."

"You're just getting better, that's all."

Sherlock chuckles sadly. "I'm not. Plus, I'm being chased around London by mysterious figures; I go places, but forget how I got there."

"Sherlock, listen to yourself. What you need is--"

"No, John, listen to _your_ self." He clenches a fist, suddenly angered by this figure that dares call himself John Watson. "One hour ago, you told me Mrs. Hudson had been shot. And when I refused to go, you let me stay. And when Moriarty came back three months ago, I smiled. I _smiled_ , John. And you said nothing. This isn't you. This is how I wanted you. I wanted you to stop criticizing me, to stop yelling at me, to see things from my point of view. But I realize now that that isn't what I really want. John, I need you to keep me in check, to remind me that sentiment isn't always a disadvantage, to stop me from isolating myself further into psychopathy." His eyes harden as he looks at the small, distant body that is both John and not John. "And I'm sorry, but you are just not good enough."

"Sherlock! Don't--"

"Goodbye, John."

His mind set, he throws away the phone and steps closer to the edge. John's faint shouts from much too far away fall on deaf ears.

Sherlock looks down. Had he called Molly, there would be a truck full of old mattresses he'd be landing on, but all he has now is cold, hard concrete. A bit of fear congeals in his stomach, so he steels himself, and takes the step.

He falls.


	7. Epilogue

"John" is the first word on his lips when he wakes up. Mycroft's disapproving face comes into focus as Sherlock blinks.

"John's dead," it says.

 

The words should come as a surprise, but they don't. After all, he'd known this all along, hadn't he?

"He died in the swimming pool explosion ten months ago," Mycroft elaborates, just in case. "You shot the bomb, and he pushed you into the pool, protecting you from most of the explosion--"

"I remember," Sherlock interrupts forcefully, feeling nauseous. And he does. He remembers the twitch of his finger on the trigger, and John tackling him a split second later, remembers the whine of a heart monitor, surrounding a hole in the ground on a cold, cold day, and the feeling like someone had used his heart to put out a cigarette stub, or twenty.

And then there's another memory, one of peppy cellphone ringtones, of planes and terrorists, of dinner and a woman. But this memory fades, like a dream he just can't manage to hold on to. In fact, exactly like that.

He probably should have realized how illogical and fantastic that chain of events had been.

"A fairly complicated process for waking me up," remarks Sherlock as he pushes himself up into a sitting position. "You couldn't just have shot me? Or perhaps unhooked the sedative?"

Mycroft gestures over to the corner of the bedroom where several men and one woman are packing up their equipment.

"My colleague Mr. Cobb informed me that when one is in the dream state for as long as you were, they must come to the realization themselves, or else there could be adverse psychological effects." Mycroft forces a smile onto his face and then walks over to a man, the Mr. Charles with blonde hair from his dreams, as it happens, and shakes his hand. "I can't thank you enough for the help, Dom. Now, if you wouldn't mind giving me some time alone with my brother."

Dom nods, understanding. "Of course. Anything for the ole Ice Man."

 

When Dom and his team vacate the room, Mycroft's face immediately reverts to a frown.

"What was this, Sherlock?" Mycroft demands. "You despised reality so much you decided to live the rest of your life in a dream?"

"No, Mycroft. I was merely using the PASIV to enable me to think better about a case, and I used the wrong sedative, tried to kill myself to wake up, and ended up in Limbo. It was an accident. Nothing more." Mycroft sighs, skeptical.

"The last time you did anything accidentally was when you were in diapers."

"Well, accidents happen, don't they?" Sherlock snaps. "That's what everyone else says, anyway." Mycroft decides that maybe hostility isn't the answer in this situation, softens, and places his hand on Sherlock's.

"We're not like everyone else," Mycroft murmurs. "And you know that." Sherlock stiffens and jumps out of bed, joints creaking in the process. He grabs the bathrobe hanging off the back of the door and puts it on.

"I must thank you for your assistance in retrieving me, brother," Sherlock says in a tone that Mycroft takes to mean: "get out." Disappointed, Mycroft acquiesces; whenever Sherlock got into that kind of a mood, it was nigh impossible to reason with him.

Mycroft makes a grab for the PASIV before Sherlock can react. "I'll be taking this with me, naturally. I'll have someone inspect it, see if it's defective." Sherlock nods, nonplussed. Their eyes meet and Mycroft realizes that this is pointless. If Sherlock Holmes wants another PASIV, he'll get one, regardless of any meddling big brothers.

Nevertheless, Mycroft keeps the machine tucked under his arm. It's worth a try, anyway.

Sherlock glares at Mycroft, and he feels as though his brother is trying to push him out of the door with sheer telepathic force.

"I'll be keeping an eye on you," Mycroft warns. The idea of his brother doing this again horrifies him, and is also horrifically possible.

"I would expect no less."

He relents eventually, and makes his way over to the front door, but pauses with his hand on the doorknob. "I'm sorry, Sherlock."

But Sherlock has already turned his back, gazing out his bedroom window, and dismisses Mycroft with a flick of his hand. Finally Mycroft leaves, but he stops outside of the front door. Opening his phone, he calls his assistant.

"Anthea, please confer with my employer about the viability of a new project."

"And what would that be, sir?"

"The outlawing and destruction of every PASIV machine in Britain."

 

Sherlock had long ago realized the advantages of bugging his front steps, where many people stopped to say things that they believed Sherlock would not hear. Angry, his mind races. Mycroft's concern was clearly overblown. Sherlock had chosen to wake up, after all. He could have just stayed in the dream, but no, he'd _made_ the decision, and he'd _taken_ that leap of faith, and what use did he have for a world of fantasy, anyway? Reality was what mattered, not some dream that his mind could fill with mysteries and plots that didn't even make sense (a chemical that made people see monster dogs? Really?), and did Mycroft actually think so lowly of Sherlock that…

En route to the kitchen from his bedroom, a chair that has been cold and empty for ten months catches his attention, and he finds himself staring. And, for a moment there, he gets a familiar feeling; it's a sensation of lightheadedness, and the light hits everything in all the wrong places, and the everyday noise from the street fades into faint rumblings.

It's a familiar feeling because he's experienced it once before, when he was standing on top of an imaginary building, staring at the imaginary body of his imaginary nemesis while coming to a realization.

A world without John. It's inconceivable, really. John had always been a sort of constant. No matter how bad the fight was, no matter what Sherlock put into the fridge this time, John always came back. He had always been there. He had never not been there.

A world without John. It's not one Sherlock's mind can accept being real, except it is. It is, it is, it is and it doesn't stop. But maybe…

The feeling passes as quickly as it had come, and Sherlock forces himself to move on. He finishes walking to the kitchen and continues his experimentation with the ratios of milk and sugar in his tea, which he has never been able to get right since he had to start making his own. When he goes to sleep that night, he dreams that he figures out that still unsolved mystery he'd been working on before this whole PASIV fiasco, but his mind palace is full, and there's no one to take notes for him, and when he wakes up, he's already forgotten the solution.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading guys. Sorry for the sad ending. :( If you don't mind, I'd love some feedback. I'm always looking for ways to make my writing better!


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